Knife Prodigy
by Queen Vaara
Summary: Clove has an abusive father, who thinks that she has to win the Games. Clove also wants to win, but for a different reason. She wants to win because she wants to escape her father, not because she wants to be rained with riches. This is her story. Clove/Cato (Clato) Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games, it belongs to Suzanne Collins
1. Roxia

**Chapter I**

**Roxia (Clove, 12 years old)**

I emerge from my plain room earlier than normal, the laces on my combat boots undone. As I stoop over to knot them, my father calls gruffly from his seat near the counter, "Go get my newspaper from the porch, Clove."

I straighten, watching as my father taps his fingers against the wooden table impatiently, and then stride toward the locked door. I slide the gold-painted bolt to the side and push open the door so that it's only slightly ajar, not wanting the cold morning air to rush inside the house.

The newspaper is in its usual place on the porch balcony, neatly rolled and tied with a string. I step out into the frigid wind and snatch up the paper. I step back inside the house, unhooking my fur-lined cloak and putting it on. My father notices this and narrows his emerald green eyes. "Where are you going?" he asks suspiciously.

"To the training center," I reply truthfully, heading toward him.

"Not before you fix me some breakfast," he snarls in response, banging down his coffee mug.

I nod, gritting my teeth, and gingerly hand the newspaper to him.

"So you're training early, aren't you?" my father says, almost mockingly, as I insert a piece of bread inside our toaster.

"Yes," I mutter. _But I'm not going to be early, because you're going to make me do about ten things for you before I get to leave. I might even be late._

"You'd better win, girl," he growls dangerously, and I know he's referring to the Hunger Games. He won, and my mother also did, so apparently they expect me to, too.

My father gulps down part of his morning coffee. "Hurry up with the toast. I'm starving." He tilts his chair against the counter nonchalantly.

As I wait for the toast, I take out a clean, white place with intricate engraved markings on it and wipe the surface clean of any dust with a cloth.

The toaster makes a small, dinging noise, and I turn towards it and remove the toast.

"You'd better hurry up, or you won't be early to the training center," my father spits. "You'll be late."

I drop the bread onto the plate and slide it carefully in front of my father in response. He drains the rest of his coffee as I wrap a fork and a knife in a clean cloth and arrange it next to the plate.

As I yank open the door, I slide a fine, slender knife into a hidden pocket on my cloak.

I hear the scrape of the fork on the plate. "You'd better get going, girl," my father yells. "You're letting all the cold air in the house."

I pull the cloak around myself and slam the door shut, glancing back to glare at Dad, knowing that I'll be yelled at later for disobeying him, while my mother watched me disapprovingly. I sigh, my breath misting, and tread toward the gray training building.

I arrive only thirty minutes before the trainers come. _Curse my cruel dad._ I press my index finger against the fingerprint scanner, and the heavy iron doors unlock. I lean on the doors, using my weight to shove them open.

I instantly head toward the knives once I'm in, and the doors shut behind me. As I near the carefully made knives, I smirk a little, tossing my high braided ponytail over my shoulder.

I end up choosing ten throwing knives from the selection. I skim my fingers over the smooth, deadly metal as I line up in front of the targets. I press down on the black switch located on the control board, grabbing a knife in my hand.

A target on the far end glows red, and I hurl a knife at it. I don't stop to check its path, because the a second target, this time directly in front of me, has flashed. I quickly calculate the path my knife should travel, and then throw a knife at its center. As I whirl towards another target, I notice that my first knife has hit the bulls-eye. I smile a little. I launch the knives over and over at the targets, not really thinking, until my hands are emptied and the last red glow fades away.

I spin toward the targets, eyes narrowed at them. Most of them have hit the center, I notice with satisfaction, but three are slightly off. I stalk forward, irritated that I hadn't hit the bulls-eye for every target, and yank out the embedded knives.

I will keep practicing and coming early, until I can throw knives flawlessly, without ever missing.

I replace the knives in their holders as the trainers file in.

Roxia strides over to me as the other four enter a side door. "Been practicing, haven't you, Clove?" she says, her tone crisp like always.

I incline my head in assent.

Roxia ties back her pale almost-white hair back in a short braid. "Why don't you show me your knife skills," she says quietly, gesturing toward the knife rack.

Roxia's the youngest trainer out of the other five, at twenty-two. She's the only one who pays any attention to me, really. The other trainers, Krauss, Arlin, Rixel, and Lyra, mostly ignore me partially because of my size. I'm not very tall, but I'm decently strong.

_Most people,_ I recall Roxia saying. _Only use their arms. That usually doesn't work very well, unless they're extremely well built. _I remember her glancing over her shoulder at Arlin, the tallest and brawniest trainer out of all of them. _People like Arlin,_ she said, coaxing a grin out of me.

"Sure," I reply uncertainly, wrapping my hands around the handles of five throwing knives. I position myself in front of the targets.

"Not the targets," Roxia says. She points at a dummy on the far end of the center. It's made for swords, but she orders for me to aim for the chest.

I examine the dummy's position. Its chest is tilted away from me. "That would be impossible," I say. "It's turned away from me."

Roxia circles me, her pale blue eyes calculating. "Observant, aren't you?" she comments.

I choose to stay silent as Roxia roams her eyes around the center. After a minute, she directs her finger at a far away rope hanging limply from a rack, used for climbing drills. "Sever that," she says.

I narrow my eyes, focusing only on the rope. As I judge how hard I should throw it, I sense Roxia's eyes on me. I shift so I'm leaning forward, adjusting the knife in my hand.

I draw back my hand, and as my hand comes forward, I release the handle.

I drop my hand almost instantly, watching my knife arch through the air. Then the blade is meeting the tough fibers of the rope, and the rope is cut cleanly in half.

Roxia smiles. "Not bad, Clove," she says, straightening. "You would be an excellent tribute."

"Thank you," I mutter awkwardly. Being raised by _my_ parents, I'm not praised very often, so I'm not very good at receiving compliments.

"The rest of your training group will be coming soon. I better get the attendance sheet." Roxia half-smiles at me, and then exits the main training area through a side door.

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><p>All I really have to say is: reviews are encouraged!<p> 


	2. Training Center

**Chapter II**

**Training** **Center****(Clove, 15 years old, almost 16)**

I remove my rabbit fur gloves and stuff them into my cloak pocket. My arm throbs from where my father punched it, and my leg hurts slightly. I rub the bruise on my arm, and then flex my arms as the other teens from my group file in. They mostly ignore me, except for a sixteen year old named Nylora, who gives me her trademark sassy smirk. I glare at her, and she rolls her eyes, flipping her streaked blond hair expertly over her shoulder and turning to Niera to whisper something snide about me into her ear.

Nylora doesn't know about my knife skills yet because she spends her whole time at the archery section.

I don't even spend the whole training time with the knives. I've tried swords, which I'm okay at, but spears hate me. Once, I tried for a whole two hours to fight with a spear, but they're so unwieldy and unbalanced!

I throw knives for about fifteen minutes in silence to warm up. I overhear Nylora giggling like an idiot to Niera when I'm putting away the knives. I sigh. Some people are such _jerks_!

"Oh, hey Clove," Nylora pipes up from behind me in her irritating weirdly high voice. She purposely stretches out the word "hey."

"Showing off your knife skills, aren't you," Nylora continues. So she _has_ noticed my skills.

"Yeah," I snap. "Showing off in complete silence while you're chattering at the archery station, not firing a single arrow."

Nylora's azure blue eyes flare, and she turns on her heel, linking elbows with Niera and sauntering off. I watch as she undos her hair from its complicated braid and begins to redo it. I tighten my ponytail, inwardly rolling my eyes as she stops to worry about what color she should tie her hair with. Major idiot. I make a noise of disgust when she selects hot pink.

I can't resist the urge to call out, "Really, Nylora? Hot pink?"

Nylora whips around. "Yes, Clove. Hot pink. What's wrong with that?" She gives me a falsely innocent look.

I give her a deadly grin. "'Cause pink is _extremely_ district two," I say sarcastically.

Nylora tilts her chin up indignantly and smoothes down her hair. "Jeez, calm down," she says, annoyed. "It's only _pink_. Got a problem with that?" I grin in satisfaction at making her irritated.

Lyra yells for us to pay attention to her, and the noise dies down.

"Today we'll be picking tributes for the 74th Hunger Games," she announces when everyone is crowed around her.

I smirk. _And I'll be one of the tributes_.

"We'll be discussing it while you train, and I will declare the two we have chosen at the end of the session."

Not far away, Nylora whispers audibly to Niera, "I'll definitely be the female tribute! Imagine having endless money and riches!" She flashes a flirtatious grin which I find repulsing.

_Yeah, Nylora. But first you have to prove yourself more worthy to go into the games than all the other teens in here, and then twenty-three other tributes will have to be killed off, _I think._ You claim you are good with a bow, but you are actually barely competent with any weapon._

Nylora lets her braid fall over her left shoulder. The ends of her hair scrape against her neck. How uncomfortable.

I see Roxia glance disapprovingly at Nylora, and her eyes shift to me. She gives a barely detectable smile.

"Now start practicing," Lyra says, tapping her clipboard.

Instead of striding confidently to the knife area, I follow a tall, muscular, blond-haired boy-I think his name is Cato-to the swordplay arena. He stops to eye a rack of heavy swords, and after a moment of considering, lifts a short, heavy broadsword easily with one hand. He must be incredibly strong, then.

I choose a thin, light sword to train with. I move to a practice dummy whose arm has been hacked off. I stand so that I'm facing the dummy sideways. I focus on the chest, like I do in knife throwing, and then whirl, cutting my blade partially into the dummy. I pull it out swiftly, and then stab it in the neck.

"Not bad," someone says quietly from behind me. "But not good either." I swivel around, almost cutting my sword through the person behind me. He moves his hand to block the blow, though. I notice that it is the boy from before, Cato. He towers above me, his eyes a piercing blue.

"You're Clove, the knife prodigy, aren't you?" Cato questions, his eyes calculating.

I narrow my eyes, refusing to back away. "How'd you know?"

"Nylora. She rants all the time about how you're some arrogant jerk," Cato says.

I let out a sharp laugh, whipping around to slash at the dummy again. "Is that so?"

"You're leaving your left side unguarded," Cato observes when I position myself to stab the dummy through the stomach.

I stop. "Who says _you_ can criticize me?" I snap, decapitating the figure. "I'm trying to practice here."

When I turn to cut through a second dummy, Cato shoves me out of the way. I hiss, slashing at him with my sword, but he blocks my attacks, barely glancing at me. When I realize that my attempts are futile, I step back, crossing my arms.

"You do it like this," he says, beheading the dummy and take off the arm of another one with the same blow. "See how my sword is angled like this?"

"I don't need a teacher," I say angrily, annoyed that he was way better than me in swordplay and strength. Emphasis on way.

Cato gives me an arrogant half-smile. "Sure, then." He knocks a figure over by cutting off its leg.

I stalk over to the knives. I hate it when other people one-up me. I check to make sure Cato's looking my direction, and then hurl five knives into the centers of five targets without glancing at them. I smirk. "What'd you think?"

Cato lifts a shoulder in a shrug. I give him a dagger-sharp glare before returning to the targets.

I throw knives for a while, ignoring all that is happening around me. I get the bulls-eye every time, not surprisingly. When I tire of the knives, I head over to the archery station, where Nylora is chatting with Niera, who's trying to fire arrows.

I pick up an abandoned bow and select a quiver of arrows. I nock the arrow carefully to the string. As I draw my hand back, my hand stings. I aim, loosing the arrow. It hits the inner third ring. I grit my teeth, firing a few more arrows. The closest I get to the center is the inner second ring. I end up leaving the station, my hands covered with angry red marks.

"Not as good with archery, huh?"

I whip around to see Cato standing not far away in the spear section. He throws it, and it hits the center of a target.

"Arrogant idiot," I snap loudly at him. "And I'm considered _okay_ at archery." It's true. Next to me, a boy misses the target completely, and a girl smiles in elation when she hits the outer ring of the target.

Cato shrugs. "Look at Niera."

I don't. I've already seen Niera send arrow after arrow into the targets. All of them hit the bulls-eye.

I stride up to Cato, my eyes narrowed. "Don't you compare _me _to _her,_" I threaten.

Cato shrugs and continues hurling spears at the targets. I try to ignore him, but I sense a twinge of envy. How does he maneuver spears so _easily._ But then, I'm a lot better at knives...

"Attention, everyone," Lyra announces. I instantly stop trying to practice with the spear.

"We've chosen the two tributes for this year's Hunger Games," Lyra continues.

Cato flexes his arms, a confident look on his face. He's almost certain to be going this year. At seventeen, he's eligible to enter the Games by the training center's standards. They only allow people who are between sixteen and eighteen because apparently tributes under that age are more likely to die.

_But I think I'm considered sixteen...My birthday is in a few weeks..._

I look into Roxia's face for any hints, but she keeps her expression blank.

"As you all already know, we choose the tributes according to their skill level with different weapons."

_Quit the suspense already!_ I think.

"I know you're fifteen, Clove," a voice hisses into my ear. I almost slap the person in the face, and when I turn to check who it is, I wish I had. It's Nylora.

"You'll _never_ be chosen," Nylora continues.

"Look who's speaking!" I exclaim, infuriated. "And I'm considered sixteen; my birthday is in a few weeks."

"Is it?" Nylora questions, smirking snidely. She spins on her heel and walks away from me.

"The male tribute is Cato Hanson," Lyra says. No surprise in that. Cato's eyes flash dangerously and he raises his arm in triumph.

"And the female tribute is..." Lyra pauses, scanning the page on her clipboard. Roxia chooses this moment to shift forward, and snatches the clipboard away from her.

"Clove Trevil," Roxia says, her voice ringing across the training center. There's a deathly silence.

Lyra twists around to give Roxia a questioning look.

Nylora shoves herself through the crowd, purposely treading on my combat boot. "Clove's only fifteen!" she yells, enraged. "I _know_ you were going to pick me! I'm positive! And then Roxia...!" Her blue eyes narrow at the trainers.

"Clove's considered sixteen, Nylora," Rixel says quietly. "And the original tribute was going to be Niera. Or Yana."

Everyone swivels toward Yana, who fiddles with her preferred simple braid, her brown eyes downcast. Yana's good with a sword, but not quite as good as Cato. And Niera...she's _really_ good with a bow, I have to admit.

Nylora jabs an elbow into Niera's ribs. "Her? No, I don't believe you. She's like, barely good with anything. Especially not _weapons._"

"While you were busy trying to chat with me, _I_ was trying to train! I don't want to sound arrogant, but I think that I'm actually decent with a bow!" Niera replies sharply, abandoning her usually timid, quiet self. I grin.

"_You're_ saying that? Have you seen _me_? _I'm_ the one good with a bow!" Nylora answers, tossing her braid and tilting her chin up. I make an odd, strangled noise.

"No, that's really not true," Niera says. "And it's not my fault you weren't chosen."

Nylora starts to retort, but Niera saunters off toward the archery area. She nocks an arrow to the bow that was slung over her shoulder, and fires it, barely even glancing at the target. It hits the center.

"Burn," someone whispers.

"Clove, Cato," Krauss says, and the class looks away from Niera. "You will be volunteering at the reaping two weeks from now."

"No!" Nylora screeches. "No!"

"Nylora," Roxia says. "We're going to have to suspend you from the center."

Nylora shuts up.

"Do you agree?" Krauss asks calmly.

I nod, and somewhere behind me, Cato mutters his assent.

Krauss then launches into the consequences of not volunteering, something he does. Every. Single. Year. It gets kind of annoying.

"You will shame District Two," Krauss ends. "Now, Cato and Clove, swear that you will volunteer. We cannot afford to choose another tribute at the last minute."

"If you still aren't comfortable with our choice, you can choose not to," Krauss adds boldly.

"I swear, on my...sword that I will volunteer. At the Reaping," Cato says, and he touches the sword at his side.

I try to look fierce. "I swear on my father's life that I will volunteer." There. That wasn't hard to think of at all. I smirk.

"Never thought _you_ were skilled," Cato says to me. "Well, before Nylora started complaining to me about you."

"What _did_ you think, then?" I taunt, glaring at him.

Cato shrugs. "I don't know. You just seem all short and thin. Not capable of a decent fight."

"_Maybe_ it's because you are extremely tall and muscular!" I exclaim in an optimistic voice, crossing my arms.

"And good with a sword. And spears," Cato finishes, grinning.

I roll my eyes, stalking towards the climbing station.

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><p>Any ideas for the train ride? I also want to include some Clato later...Maybe in the Games...If you have any ideassuggestions, PM or review.


	3. The Reaping

**Chapter III**

**Reaping**

I take a fistful of my black knee- length dress, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable. My hair is in a simple braid. I managed to conceal a small knife in my combat boot, for defense.

Instinctively, I scan the whole area, mentally keeping track of Nylora's position. She has her hair swept up in a braided bun, tied with a ruby-set flower, and is wearing a strapless white silk dress with a pattern of red roses on the hem. It's horrifyingly short-not even reaching halfway down her thighs. I turn away in disgust just when district two's escort prances onto the stage.

Judging from our escort's look, ghostly powdered faces are extremely popular in the Capitol. So are outrageous wigs and way-emphasis on way-too much makeup. She's wearing a long-haired wig, with half of it-beginning at the neat part-dyed a bright, attention-seeking blue, and the other half white-blond. In it is a golden bow with sapphires stitched into it.

I barely pay attention when the escort introduces herself enthusiastically as Cedra. She hops around the high-quality stage in freakishly high gold heels, waving and grinning. Only when the mayor stands up regally, gazing proudly over the crowd, does she settle down, folding her pale hands over her frilly sparkly golden dress. Her scary grin stays, though.

The mayor begins to speak about the history of Panem. I've heard it so many times I zone out.

I regain my concentration when Cedra lets loose a high-pitched giggle. "Now it's time to choose our tributes!" she quips happily, clapping her hands together. "How about we follow tradition and let the ladies go first?"

No one makes a sound. I'm guessing that most of district two is as annoyed with Cedra as I am.

Cedra crosses across the stage to the girls bowl. Suspense. The escort inches her hand deep into the glass, and snags a slip of paper in her slender fingers.

Everyone in my section-the sixteen year old section-stares hungrily at the paper as Cedra unfolds it and smoothes out the wrinkles. She gives us a winning smile and directs her eyes at the type on the paper.

"Alexis Ryker!"

"I volunteer!" I yell, springing forward.

"I volunteer!" Another voice echoes throughout the reaping area. Everyone starts muttering; usually there is only one volunteer-the one chosen by the trainers. I swivel around, to see another figure shoving through the dense crowd. A figure with streaked blond hair and a too-short white silk dress. Nylora.

My eyes flare angrily, and I sprint toward her. She backs up a little in alarm, but I swing a fist at her, which hits her in the shoulder. Nylora screeches in pain, and her hand goes to her hit shoulder.

"What are you doing?" I hiss, lifting my combat boot and taking out the knife. "The trainers chose _me._"

"No, they didn't," Nylora retorts, her eyes wild. "It was only by accident that you were selected."

"What are you talking about?" I snarl in response. Suddenly, men in white protective uniforms emerge from the crowd, and they restrain Nylora. She thrashes, screaming, "You're ruining my reputation, Clove!"

I smirk coldly, even when a Peacekeeper comes up to me and seizes me by my shoulders. "Who cares, Nylora?"

The Peacekeeper lowers his head. "Put down the knife."

I throw the knife to the ground. It's not _that_ finely made, anyways.

"I volunteered," I say. "I volunteered."

"Yes," the Peacekeeper responds. "You're the tribute."

I allow myself a small smile, and the Peacekeeper releases me. I stride through the crowd, and they clear a path for me.

As I walk up the stairs, Cedra smiles nervously. "What an interesting turn of events!" she exclaims, clasping my shoulder. "What's your name?"

"Clove Trevil," I mutter to her.

"Clove Trevil!" she pipes to the audience. "Time for the boys!" She saunters over to the boys glass bowl, and plunges her hand into the paper slips once more.

When her hand surfaces, clutching a piece of paper, Cedra angles herself toward the crowd.

"Mason Nguyen!"

"I volunteer!" The voice is attention-seeking. Cato.

"Ooh, another volunteer! How surprising!" Cedra exclaims even though it's not surprising at all. "Come on up!"

Cato walks confidently through the many people, his figure dominating.

Cedra plasters a creepy smile onto her face when Cato makes it onto the stage. "Everyone, clap for this year's tributes, Cato and Clove! Now shake hands, you two."

I offer my hand uncomfortably, my face expressionless, and Cato shakes it.

"Allies?" Cato's question is quiet. He releases my hand.

"Of course," I whisper, turning toward the audience. "You're good with swords..."

Cato gives me a barely detectable grin. "Knife prodigy."

Through the crowd's thundering sounds, Cedra yells in her high-pitched voice, "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!"

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><p>Any ideas for what should happen in the Games? (Remember, I want to include some Clato) Put your ideas in the reviews, or PM me.<p> 


	4. The Justice Building

**Chapter IV**

**The Justice** **Building**

After the national anthem ends, the Peacekeepers lead me into the Justice Building, and direct me into a room. It's much, _much,_ more comfortable than the threadbare room I was confined to at home.

I walk across the room to sit on the velvet couch, resting my feet on the shag carpet as I take in the room. The gold glint of the door handle catches my eye, and I instinctively assume a defense position. My knife was confiscated by the Peacekeeper, so I'm unarmed.

My father strides inside the room. I recoil, glaring up at him. He stares down at me with intense green eyes that I inherited from him.

"You better win," my father says roughly, grabbing my shoulder and shaking it. I shove him away, and he acquires a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Hear me, girl?" he yells. "You lose, and I'll come after your corpse with a knife!"

Sudden fury almost blinds me, and I jump to my feet, a snarl on my face.

"Oh, so you're going to try and fight me?" Dad tips back his head and lets loose a maniacal laugh.

I seize this chance to kick him in the chest. My father staggers back, and all traces of humor disappear fro his face.

My dad growls, raising his fists and coming at me. I manage to sidestep, so he topples into the couch. He grabs at my throat, and I feel his fingers latch onto something on my neck. My pendant. I lean back, trying to pry off his fingers. He yells something unintelligible.

Suddenly, Peacekeepers break into our room, and they restrain my father, who releases his hold on my pendant. I look down at it. I'd almost forgotten about it. Obsidian carefully cut into a teardrop, with _C_ engraved on the back. The string threaded through it is frayed and worn. I make a mental note to change it later.

The door slams shut as the Peacekeepers haul my father out of the room. I tuck my pendant into my dress.

The door creaks open again. This time it's my mother. I'm surprised she's here; she rarely takes breaks off her work. She has the same dark hair as me, and light blue eyes.

My mother sits next to me, her gaze steady. "Your father is raging outside," she says quietly. "Bring pride to our family. Win."

I can't snarl at my mother. She was always the gentler one, the one who only stood by and frowned disapprovingly.

"I'll try," I mutter.

"You're good with a knife. Great, actually. Use that to your advantage. I'll be watching you," my mom says. Then she gets up, and Peacekeepers bring her out.

I stare blankly after her, even after the door closes. There probably won't be anyone else visiting me. I rise, and step on something cold. And hard. A knife. I bend to pick it up from the shag carpet. My mother must have dropped it. Purposely or accidentally I don't know. As I stand there, admiring the intricately carved handle, there are footsteps, and I quickly stuff it under the couch's pillows.

Roxia steps inside. Her hair is still in its usual braid, but she's wearing a decently-fancy red shirt. "You can win this," she says. "You're skilled. Very skilled. You can kill six tributes with a flick of your hands. I've seen you throw, you know."

"Except my other hand will be holding up a backpack," I reply.

"You can win this," Roxia says. "Show them the deadly, merciless girl you are."

"Yes," I say. "I will."

"I have to go," Roxia says.

As she's leaving, she turns slightly and whispers, grinning, "Knife prodigy."

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><p>Again, review if you have any suggestions!<p> 


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